


The Courage of Stars

by orphan_account



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BAMF Malia, F/M, Future Fic, Gen, Hurt Stiles, M/M, Red Thread of Fate, emotional tether, recovery fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-05
Updated: 2014-09-07
Packaged: 2018-02-16 04:47:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2256423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>He's not okay. He'll probably never be 'okay' again, but he's better. He's here with people he loves most in the world and that's a hell of a lot closer to 'okay' than he'd ever thought he'd be again.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>After several weeks of being held hostage, Stiles wakes up in the hospital. But just because he's safe doesn't mean he's healed, or that he'll ever even recover at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I am not a doctor, nor am I police officer…nor do I have any clue about medical or police procedure at all. I look up what I can, but if something seems off it's because I couldn't find any information and am making it up as I go along. Sorry.  
> This story takes place sometime during the first semester of their senior year, so about nine or ten months after Season Four ends. I try to leave the events between somewhat ambiguous so that it could potentially fit with future story lines.  
> There are original characters, but they are very minor. I always add original characters to future fic because it just seems unrealistic to me that our characters would go from meeting so many new people within the course of the year covered by the show so far, then meet NO ONE at all after that point.  
> Trigger Warnings: Implied and mentioned non-con (none of it will be graphic, but there might be some sort of triggering flashback-moments). Mentioned attempted suicide (but not exactly).  
> This is a recovery fic, not a torture fic. This is not a sequel to a torture fic. Stiles's abduction will be told through exposition, dialogue, flashbacks and dreams. A lot of it will just be implied, so if you're here for that sort of thing, sorry. I can't stomach writing that sort of thing in extreme detail (but I'm not that squeamish about things and I won't shy away from uncomfortable things, as evidenced just in this chapter).  
> I do not own Teen Wolf or Saturn by Sleeping at Last (the title is taken from the lyrics of that song).

The first thing he is aware of when he wakes up is that he's alone.

He can't see, hear, or smell anything, but he can still sense that there is no one else with him. The prickly feeling underneath his skin of being watched is not there. No one is watching him. No one is with him. Which means that he is safe for the moment.

Touch returns to him next and it registers in his muddled brain that he is far too comfortable right now. There's something soft under his skin, completely different from the cold basement floor he's grown accustomed too, and it's sort of squishy, almost like a mattress. Or _actually_ a mattress.

His heartbeat picks up and he tries to quell his panic. It won't do him any good. All it will do is make him have an anxiety attack and possibly hyperventilate. Which will only make things worse, in the long run.

There's a curious beeping noise that seems to be speeding up. He tries to open his eyes but his lids are too heavy, anchored shut almost. As he's struggling to pry them apart, he suddenly becomes aware of the feeling of needles sticking into his skin. His first reaction to this, is to panic more, because trypanophobia is actually a thing and he definitely has it. But then his brain finally starts to kick in and connects the dots through the haziness.

_Bed. Beeping. Needles._

_Hospital._

Hope springs into his chest like a butterfly desperately beating its wings to escape a cage, and he's propelled by a desire to see, to know if this is really true or if his senses are betraying him yet again. It pushes his eyes open though they almost immediately snap back shut. There is so much light, it's almost unbearable, but he forces his eyes open again because that in itself is a sign that maybe, just maybe…

He hears the door swing open and someone rushes into the room. All the breath rushes out of his lungs because he's just lying here helpless on the bed, barely able to keep his eyes open, completely immobile, and even if he hasn't been able to defend himself properly for days (weeks? months?) it's still a new level of defenselessness he isn't emotionally equipped to handle.

A strange face enters his line of sight. It's a woman he doesn't know, wearing turquoise scrubs, her hair tucked back professionally. A nurse. Or at least, someone dressed as a nurse. She's not who he was afraid she would be, but he doesn't relax, just stares at her through slitted eyes, pupils probably dilated to accommodate the light.

"Welcome back," she says softly in a gentle voice that's probably perfectly crafted to make patients trust her. It doesn't work on him. "You're a real fighter, you know that hun?"

There are many things he wants to say in response to that. He opts for none of them, choosing instead to croak out: "Where am I?" His voice sounds horrible and ragged, completely foreign to him.

The nurse smiles at him. "Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital."

The hope swells a little more, but he won't give in to it yet. Not until he knows for sure. And he can't know. Not until he sees someone he trusts, someone he knows for sure would never lie to him. "Melissa." He manages thickly, trying to lift one of his hands.

"Melissa McCall?" The nurse asks, thankfully grasping his point immediately. "Do you want me to get her?"

He tries to nod, but the motion makes him feel sick and his head starts to spin. "Yeah," he says instead. "Please. I need…please."

"Okay." The nurse pats a hand on his blanket reassuringly - next to his hand, he notices, not touching him - and gives him another smile. "I'll go get her. I'll be right back, okay? If you need anything, press the blue call button on the side of the bed."

He gives a soft noise of agreement even though he has no idea what button she's talking about and doubts he could reach it even if he knew. But he doesn't want her to waste time explaining it to him.

She leaves the room and his gaze travels to the tubes coming out from under the blanket (sticking in his arm, but he can't summon the energy to freak out about that). They're attached to several IV drips. Probably saline, for dehydration. Almost certainly morphine, because if he weren't on some ungodly strong pain medication he'd be in a hell of a lot more pain right now. Plus his head is still fuzzy even though he knew from experience he should be fully alert by now.

Several long minutes pass by and he wills himself not to slip back into unconsciousness. _Wait for Melissa_ , he orders himself. _Wait for Melissa so you know this is real, then you can go back to sleep._

His eyes are fluttering shut for the umpteenth time when the door opens again.

"Stiles?"

Wide, worried brown eyes stare back at him. Her mouth is parted slightly open and her face seems more pinched, drawn and wrinkled than he remembers. But it's her. Melissa. This is real.

"Thank god." He mumbles, feeling a few tears falling down his face as he exits consciousness again.

* * *

The next time he wakes up, Melissa is still there. He isn't sure if he only blacked out for a few minutes or if she's been sitting there next to his bed for literally hours. Normally he'd feel bad for her taking the time when she's clearly at work, but he's so relieved to see her the thought doesn't even properly register.

She's reading a book when his eyes first open, but he must make some noise because suddenly she lets the pages fall shut, eyes flicking up to look at him. "Hi, sweetie." She whispers, smiling encouragingly at him. "You ready to stay awake this time?"

It's a good question, because exhaustion is tugging at his edges even though he literally just woke up. "I think so, for a little while." Talking doesn't take as much effort as it did before, but his voice still sounds like someone tossed his vocal chords in a meat grinder. "Where's Dad?"

"In the waiting room." Melissa assured him. "He wanted to come in here when he heard you woke up, but we didn't want to overwhelm you. Do you want me to get him for you?"

Yes. He wants to see his dad. He wants to see him so badly, his chest aches at the thought. But he also doesn't want her to leave. "Could you maybe text him and…who else is here?" If his dad and Melissa are hanging around, the odds that Scott is here too are pretty good.

"Everyone."

He blinks. " _Everyone?_ "

Melissa nods, looking somewhat amused at his reaction. "About half of them were already here, and the other half came when they heard you woke up. Basically, there's a pack camp-out going on in the waiting room. The janitorial staff is about to throw a fit."

Stiles isn't exactly sure what to do with this information so he tried to go back to his previous train of thought. The thought of so many people crowded in this tiny hospital room with him is claustrophobic and he shudders slightly. He's grateful and touched and more than a little shocked they're all here for him, but he can't see all of them right now. It would be too overwhelming.

"Maybe just three at a time?" Melissa suggests, as if reading his mind. "Does that sound good or is it too many?"

He exhales slightly in relief. "Three's good." He watches her send a text without asking him who, which he's grateful for. Even if he knows exactly who he wants to see right now, he'd feel bad for picking and choosing, especially since they'd all been here since…since… "How long have I been here?"

After a quick glance at the clock, Melissa replies, "Approximately thirty-seven hours. You had a few minor emergency surgeries when you first got here, so you stayed knocked out for awhile from those."

Thirty-seven hours. A few minor emergency surgeries. His first thought probably shouldn't be _well that all sounds rather expensive_ , but it is. Their financial situation may have improved in the last nine months, but he's pretty sure this is going to knock them back down. Then again, depending on how much of the truth they were able to tell the feds, there might be some kind of payout he's eligible for. What is the compensation for being kidnapped and tortured? He's not sure, but it has to at least cover _some_ of the medical bills.

As he is musing over this, semi-aware that the morphine is what's causing him to be so nonchalant about the whole situation, the door opens again and his dad comes in, wearing the warm, totally fake reassuring expression he saves for the times when he's scared shitless but doesn't want Stiles to know. Behind him are Scott and Lydia, holding onto each other in a way that would make anyone who don't know them mistake them for a couple.

"Hey guys," he manages tiredly. "Long time no see."

It's weak and not really funny at all, but Scott grants him a halfhearted smirk for the effort. "How are you feeling?" Then he grimaces. "Stupid question, sorry."

"No, it's fine." He takes a second to catalogue how he's feeling. Everything aches, obviously, and there's a fresh stinging sensation on his wrists he doesn't remember from before…whatever the hell happened that led him here. "Mostly woozy." Stiles admits. "I think I'm on a lot of morphine."

Melissa nods. "That you are. Nurse Rebecca mentioned they were going to start you on a lower dose soon, so you'll be a little more alert soon, but probably in more pain. Sorry."

He shakes his head slightly. "It's really not that bad." He can handle a little more pain. Compared to what he's been through, this is literally nothing.

The thought makes his gaze shift guiltily over to Lydia. She looks white and exhausted, and he's pretty sure this is the first time he'd seen her in a public place without makeup. "Sorry," he mutters, before averting his eyes.

Lydia frowns. "Sorry? What do you have to be sorry for?" Her voice is quieter than normal, almost like she thinks he's made of glass and will shatter if she speaks too loudly.

He opens his mouth to remind her, but it's all too complicated, too confusing and he's not entirely sure it wasn't all in his head anyway. Or maybe it was something _he_ made up, something else to fuck with his head.

_She's in pain, Stiles. She can feel all of it. You're hurting her. Every second you're still breathing, you're hurting her._

"Stiles?" He shifts his focus to his dad, whose standing near the bed, resting a hand slowly on the pillow by his head. "Are you okay? Do you need us to get the nurse?"

He's not okay. He'll probably never be 'okay' again, but he's better. He's here in the hospital with the four people he loves most, and that's a hell of a lot closer to 'okay' than he'd ever thought he'd be again. "No, I'm fine. I'm just tired, sorry."

"Stop apologizing." His dad orders softly, eyes crinkling. "If you need to sleep, go back to sleep. We'll be right here, I promise. Don't push yourself."

"He's right." Melissa stretches out her hand instinctively to reach for him, but freezes at the last second. "Take your time, there's no rush. We're all just happy to have you here with us."

Stiles nods and lets his eyes close again, even as he mentally notes Melissa's hesitation. It was the same as his dad putting his hand on the pillow instead of his head, and the nurse touching the blanket beside his hand.

She's afraid to touch him. They all are. His stomach sinks as he realized what that means.

They know.

* * *

It really shouldn't surprise him that they know. Not only is his dad the Sheriff and Melissa an experienced nurse, he was also probably found by werewolves. With superior senses, including smell. If Derek and Scott were able to figure out Isaac's father used to lock him in the freezer just by seeing some old scratch marks, they would definitely be able to piece together what had happened to Stiles.

He tries not to dwell on the thought as the nurse examines him and he goes through another round of visitors (Malia, Kira and Liam). But a nasty little voice keeps singing it over and over in his head - _they know they know they know_.

Scott comes by again later and gives him the Cliff Notes version of how they managed to find him. As the alpha werewolf gives his side of the story, suddenly Stiles remembers his. Figuring out that _his_  plan was to lure Scott and the others toward an impostor, who Scott would kill and lose his true alpha status, leaving him vulnerable to the trap that _he'd_ rigged for Scott. Realizing that the pack thought he was dead.

He recalls the fit of desperation that had seized him, how he'd uncovered the fork he'd hidden in the space between the bricks behind his back. It had been sharpened on one edge from being sawed against the metal of his restraints (that had been his original plan when he'd managed to steal it, but the restraints turned out to be harder than the fork). And - _oh god_ \- he'd _dug_ into his wrists with it, tearing them open -

Suddenly he's throwing up and Scott is right there with a trash can, hand hovering over his back. "It's okay." His best friend soothes. "It's okay. You're here now. You're safe. You're safe now, I promise. He won't hurt you ever again."

Stiles really wants to laugh at that, because this is probably the one thing that isn't _his_ fault, but he just heaves into the trash can again, bile dripping down his chin.

* * *

 

Scott never gets to finish his story and it doesn't occur to Stiles to ask anyone else to fill him in on the most important detail until he's waking up screaming and his dad is in front of him, frantically shushing him.

"Shh, Stiles, I'm here." His dad sits down on the bed, hands fluttering like he wants to grab him and hold him tight like he used to do whenever Stiles would have nightmares. "It's okay."

People keep saying that to him. It's like a mantra at this point _it's okay it's okay it's okay_. Like they think if they say it enough it'll actually be true. And maybe before it would have been comforting to hear, but he just doesn't believe it. False reassurances do nothing for him. No, what he needs know is to know, to have information, solid proof that he'll never have to go back to there, that he won't be taken from his family and friends again.

"Dad…" He pants out, gripping the hospital blanket between two fists. "Dad, tell me. Did you get him? Or is…please tell me you got him."

Realization flashes in his dad's eyes and he nods grimly. "Yeah, we did." He rests a hand next to Stiles's, their skin barely grazing. "Didn't Scott tell you what happened?"

Stiles shakes his head. "No, he didn't get there." He doesn't want to tell his dad he threw up because he remembered messily carving out his own wrists in an attempt to alert the pack not only to his aliveness, but also to his location. "Tell me. Please tell me he's locked up."

His dad runs a hand over his face. "Well, not exactly." He admits in a quiet tone that makes Stiles's stomach turn. "He threatened to expose everyone in the pack as a supernatural creature. And while I'm pretty sure most of the world would've thought he was crazy, we couldn't risk some nut job believing him and taking up the cause for himself."

"Oh no." Stiles feels the beginning of a panic coming on. "Tell me Scott didn't…he didn't…"

Scott couldn't have. He's a true alpha, an alpha that arose from strength of character. If he killed anyone, he wouldn't be an alpha anymore and he'd be vulnerable to all the people who would come after him. Not to mention how much it would destroy Scott personally to kill someone. The feeling of blood on his hands, even if the person was far from innocent…it's something Stiles would never want for Scott. Not ever.

"He didn't." His dad assures him. "Derek did."

"Oh." _That was friendly of him_ , he thinks. It's a bizarre thought to have. Definitely not the appropriate response to hearing that one of his friends had murdered someone. But Stiles knows that for all Derek talks a big game about ripping people's throats out, he has a very difficult time killing anyone because of what happened with Paige.

For the past year or so he's considered Derek to be somewhat of an extremely grumpy, violent older brother, while he was pretty sure Derek still thought of him as a nuisance to be tolerated only for Scott's sake. He knows that Derek probably didn't kill him only for Stiles, but for him to be pushed to that point there had to be some personal feelings involved, which means he actually does care, even if he sucks at showing it normally.

"He broke his neck," His dad continues. "It was fast. Clean." _Cleaner than I would have done_ , is the unspoken statement there. "He had to go down to give a statement, but we've got several eyewitness reports claiming it was done in defense of another life…which is somewhat untrue. We could have arrested him, but like I said, the risk…" his dad trails off and Stiles knows how uneasy that must make him, flouting the law for some vigilante sort of supernatural justice system. If he'd been in Derek's position though, Stiles knew he would have probably made the same choice. They had to keep the pack as secret as they could.

"It's going to be tricky to leave the supernatural out of this case file," he muses, because he knows this one is not going to just slide under the radar. He still doesn't know how long he was gone for, but it was long enough to garner a fair amount of state attention, even some national. The file will have to be airtight.

His dad shakes his head. "Not as tricky as you might think." He hesitates, before continuing, "We'll have to make something up about how we found you because 'Lydia is a banshee and sensed his imminent death and led us to him' isn't exactly going to cut it here. But we really don't have to explain the motives at all, because you actually fit the profile of Linchman's other victims."

Stiles freezes. "Linchman? Is that his name?"

"You didn't-" His dad breaks off, looking stricken. "Of course you didn't know."

"What's his first name?" He asks, not sure why it's suddenly so important to know this.

His dad regards him for a second, before replying. "Sylar. His name is - was Sylar Linchman."

After a moment, Stiles nods. Sylar Linchman. He would have been oddly disappointed if it was something totally mundane like Bob Smith. But Sylar Linchman is adequately creepy-sounding. "Who are they? The other victims, I mean."

There's definite discomfort on his dad's face now. "No one you'd recognize. Different young adults from around the country. He moved a lot, that's why he was never caught. There were five others."

He catches the use of past tense and his jaw clenches. "So they're all…I mean none of them survived, then?"

"None except you. You're the only survivor."

For some reason the word makes his breath catch in his throat. _Survivor_. This is probably the point where he should feel like it's not quite apt, like he hasn't really survived, or he hasn't earned it. That's what all the books he's ever read and movies he's seen tell him, anyway. But it has the exact opposite effect. He _is_ a survivor. And he's…he's _proud_ of himself for it.

Before he knows it, he's sobbing and reaching for his dad, who stiffens and is startled at first, before hugging him back. They hold each other tightly and it hurts, his cracked ribs screaming at him in protest and his newly-stitched kidney aching. But he's so desperate for touch, for some kind of human contact that isn't the nurses and doctors' careful hands or _him_ \- no, Sylar. He doesn't get to be _him_ anymore, like some kind of otherworldly being beyond a name. He doesn't get that kind of power anymore.


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: There's a dream/flashback in this chapter, with some non-con elements.

Lydia is pissed at him, though she's attempting to hide it. He knows her too well at this point though - can read the angry, squiggly line between her eyebrows, the twitching of her lips as she tries to keep the corners firmly upturned into a supportive smile. He's just not sure what for, mostly because there's a million and one reasons it could be and he wouldn't even know where to begin to ask. So he just waits for it to come out, because she's not the type to keep things bottled up forever, at least not with him.

Eventually there's a brief period of time where they're alone together - Scott left for work an hour ago and his dad ran down to the cafeteria for thirty minutes - and Lydia just sort of stares at him for a good five minutes before Stiles finally caves.

"Let me have it, then."

She doesn't bother playing stupid. Instead, she purses her lips and studies the ceiling for a moment. "I don't want to yell at you," she admits. "Because that's not…I just got you back, and if I yell at you it's going to make me feel like a bitch."

"But you want to." He shifts into a more comfortable position. Moving is getting easier every day. Some point soon they're going to start talking about discharging him. He's not sure how he feels about it, honestly. On the one hand, he hates hospitals with the passion of a thousand suns. On the other, he's not sure how he's going to handle setting foot in his house again, not to mention _sleeping_  there… "Come on, tell me. I can handle it, Lydia. I promise."

And the thing is, he really can. Once he got past the whole falling asleep every hour thing, he started feeling like his old self again pretty quickly. Somehow he knows that's not right, that he's _supposed_ to feel different and he wonders what's wrong with him that he's bouncing back so easily. Everyone expects him to be broken and shattered and he's just _not_.

Maybe he was just too fucked up in the first place for this to mess him up any further.

She opens her mouth to speak but nothing comes out at first. After a few tries she finally manages in a thin voice: "I thought you were dead."

It hurts, hearing it from her. "I know. I'm sor-"

"No, let me finish." Lydia interrupts, voice stronger. "I talked this over with Scott and he thinks it's possible that was Sylar's doing, that our connection broke because he cut it off. But I know better. That was you. You figured out how to shut it down. Didn't you?"

She's not really asking him - she knows what he did - so there's no point in denying it. "I had to."

Her eyes flash with a mixture of hurt and anger. "To protect me, right? Did it ever occur to you that the pain of thinking I'd lost you would be worse than anything he could possibly do to me?"

"No, it didn't." Stiles replies honestly, chest aching. "And I'm sorry you went through that, but I don't regret it. I did what I had to."

Lydia glares at him and it's a good thing she's so tiny and harmless or he'd be genuinely afraid of what she might do to him (except she's also _Lydia_ and he knows that she'd never hurt him. Not intentionally, anyway). After a few seconds she stands up with a huff, grabbing her bag and stomping out the door, leaving him genuinely alone for the first time in what feels like days. And while his instincts are screaming at him that alone is good, alone is safe, he feels a pang of loneliness without anyone's company, and a more worrisome sense of anxiety at being left alone unprotected in the room.

After about a minute, Lydia comes back in, expression calmer and softer. "Maybe you should pay better attention in class, idiot."

"Huh?" 

She sits back down in the well-worn chair by his bed. "'Maybe you should pay better attention in class, idiot' is the last thing i said to you before you went home that day." Lydia tells him with a sad smile. "I've thought about that a lot the past few weeks. If you'd died, my last word to you would have literally been 'idiot.' So even though I'm mad, and I really do have to go home right now, I don't want to leave on a sour note. Does that make sense?"

"Yeah." He doesn't actually remember her saying that to him, and he's sure it was in jest, but he sees why it would bother her. "I really didn't mean for you to think I was dead. That wasn't why - it wasn't my intention."

"I know." She leans in and kisses him on the forehead, before stiffening. "Oh god, I'm sorry, I wasn't thinking-"

"No, no, it's okay." Stiles grabs her hand and gives it a reassuring squeeze. "I'm not going to break, Lydia. I'm not…I'm not going to fall apart if you touch me. Everyone's being so careful, it's driving me crazy, actually."

Lydia looks skeptical at first, then reaches out slowly and smooths the hair back from his forehead. It's something she started doing their junior year, when he'd run off the lacrosse field with sweaty hair plastered to his forehead and she'd click her tongue disapprovingly at him before reaching up on her tiptoes and pushing it out of the way. The only other people who've ever done that to him are Melissa and his mother. He closes his eyes on instinct, enjoying the cool press of her palm against his forehead. 

"See?" He tells her when she pulls away, eyes opening again. "You don't have to treat me any different. I'm fine. Totally fine."

* * *

 

He's not. 

The first time happens when he falls asleep while Malia and her (friend? boyfriend? sex buddy? He's not sure and he doesn't know if they're at that place yet where he's comfortable asking) Max are visiting. 

His dreams are hazy, filled with mostly darkness, though occasionally he catches a glimpse of that stupid egress window that proved too skinny for him to fit through. It's just him in the blackness, listening to his own heartbeat. Sometimes he has the fork out and he's sawing at the handcuffs, other times it's earlier on when it was ropes instead and he's clawing at them, trying to twist himself free, and most times it's just him sitting there slumped against the wall, hoping and praying to be left alone for just little bit longer, that the footsteps won't come.

But they always do, loud and heavy down the staircase, reverberating against his back and making him flinch with every footfall. In his dreams he closes his eyes because in his own mind there's no point to that stupid pride that kept him facing his tormentor head-on and glaring at him every time he approached. It doesn't make it any less terrifying, because the steps just keep coming closer and then there's hot breath on his neck, a hand cupping his face, while another presses on his dislocated shoulder.

_"Did you miss me while I was gone, Stiles?" The gravelly voice asks, tongue brushing against Stiles's ear while he whispers into it. "Tell me you missed me."_

_His lips stay firmly glued together. At first, at the beginning, he would talk back, using his full arsenal of witty retorts and comments as a tool for keeping himself sane. Now his only form of defiance is just flat-out not talking at all. He's not sure if he could if he wanted to. He hasn't used his voice for anything but screaming in a long time._

_"Tell me you missed me," The voice insists, "and maybe I won't have to hurt you as much this time."_

_It's a lie. He knows it's a lie because he played along one time and the only thing that changed was how sick he felt after saying the words. There's still a tiny voice in the back of his mind yelling at him to just do what he's told_ why do you have to make everything harder for yourself, you idiot? _be a good boy and give him what he wants and maybe this time it won't be so bad, whatever he's planning won't hurt as much._

_Fingers dig into the back of his neck, nail scraping at the short hair there and moving upward, curling into the longer hair near the top of his head, yanking at it, pulling him up, other hand grabbing his jaw and bruising it before caressing his cheek with deceptive gentleness._

_"Calm down, Stiles."_ He _chides mockingly. "It's okay. You're okay."_

_He jerks back, trying to get away, but is pinned by the wall behind his head._

No! _He tries to shout, but his mouth won't move, his vocal chords are frozen._ No, get away from me!

 _"You're_ safe _, Stiles. It's okay. I'm not going to hurt you, I promise."_

_He blinks and Malia's face swims in front of him instead, as she strokes his hair with her hands, hands that used to scratch down his back late at night, leaving claw marks. She's talking to him, forming words, but all he can focus on were her lips, lips that used to press against his with bruising force in a battle for dominance-_

_"_ GET AWAY FROM ME!"

He shoves her away violently and she stumbles back, away from the bed. Stiles collapses back in on himself with a cry, swearing under his breath in pain as he tries to control his racing heartbeat. Something is burning in his abdomen, and it's enough to snap him out of whatever half-awake state he was in. 

After a few moments he looks up to see that Malia is standing by the door,  hand touching her face gingerly, where there is a rapidly-healing bruise - oh god, he _hit_ her.

"Malia, I'm sorry." He pants out over the pain. "Oh god I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry."

Malia holds up a hand. "I'm fine," she tells him, gritting her teeth for a second. "You hit like a girl, Stiles, don't worry about it."

Any other time, Stiles would probably point out that by using 'like a girl' as an insult, she was actually categorizing her entire _gender_ as an insult. But that's not his biggest concern right now. "That doesn't make it okay…fuck, Malia I'm really sorry. I don't know what the hell came over me."

A guilty look flashes across Malia's face. "You were muttering in your sleep…you seemed upset, so I thought maybe if I stroked your hair like I used to sometimes do in your sleep, you'd feel better. But I guess it backfired…" 

He heaves a sigh. "Yeah, I guess…you used to stroke my hair in my sleep? Why did I never know that?"

"Because you were sleeping, dumbass." She relaxes, the bruise on her cheek completely disappeared, and steps closer to the bed again. Max is nowhere to be seen - he must have left sometime while Stiles was asleep - and he's grateful because this is not a conversation he would want to have with someone he's barely friends with.

Stiles nods, watching her approach. "I guess I have a bit of a problem with people touching me while I sleep now," he admits quietly. So maybe he's not as fine as he'd thought. "God, I can't believe I actually hit you. I feel like such a jackass."

"Hey, you're not." Malia reaches out, probably intending to rest her hand on his arm or something and he sees her lying next to him on the bed, pouncing on him, pushing his shoulders down into the mattress teeth grazing against his neck…

He flinches away.

Malia halts, face stricken. 

"I…" Stiles fumbles to find the right way to explain this. To justify this reaction to her. But he can't.

She takes a few steps back. "You're scared of me." The words echo, disconnected from her body. Like the day she told him she needed a partner, not a caretaker, someone who trusted her enough to make her own decisions, to be able to handle the truth. She seemed so much more fragile this time. Like he'd finally managed to actually break her heart. "You don't trust me."

"No, I do!" He swears, and it's the truth. She's risked her life for him so many times, been there for him, how could he not? Their relationship may not have been the epic romance he'd at one point thought it could be, but it had _meant_ something to him, had cemented a bond between them he felt sure he could rely on for the rest of his life. "I trust you. I swear, I don't know why I just did that."

Malia gives him a watery smile and he's startled to see that she's crying. "You don't have to explain yourself, Stiles. I get it. I just - I thought that we - it's okay. Um, I'm just gonna go. I'll come by tomorrow, okay?"

"Mali-"

She disappears out the door, leaving him alone in the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS IS NOT ANTI-MALIA OR ANTI-STALIA. This is actually a surprisingly pro-Malia story for me, and her relationship with Stiles is important in this story. But it's about their post-relationship friendship and it's not romantic. So if you're looking for romantic Stalia, this isn't the place for it.
> 
> I don't buy into the whole 'Malia is abusive' thing. She's just an aggressive girl, there's nothing wrong with that, and Stiles seems to enjoy it. He is not reacting the way he does because she was abusive to him and he's triggered by those memories. He is reacting this way because his brain still associates her with sex (and aggressive sex, lol) which is difficult for him to cope with at his current state.


	3. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Discussion of attempted suicide.  
> Probably some inaccurate medical information. Still not a medical professional.

One of the things he's always been jealous of about werewolves is their rate of healing. Recovering from a dozen bullet-wounds in less than a day? _Badass_. And every time he ended the day with a concussion or a sprained wrist thanks to a battle with some supernatural entity, he's always found his thoughts wandering back to that parking lot, with Peter Hale's fangs an inch away from his wrist. _Do you want the bite?_

Those injuries were nothing compared to this.

The worst of it is his kidney, which was damaged badly and needed surgery to repair the ruptured blood vessels. During his freak-out with Malia, he aggravated some of the injuries but by the grace of god did not need any more surgery.

His right leg was fractured in three places and also needed surgery. The doctors keep tossing around encouraging phrases like 'on your feet in three months' and 'physical therapy' and 'cast off maybe by February.' Lacrosse season starts in January of course and even if he's not that great (he's never been able to recapture the magic of his sophomore year state championship, for some reason), he's worked really hard to get to the point where he's not that _bad_ either. Stiles finds himself hoping that the timeline they're giving him is purposefully pessimistic, so that he doesn't come hobbling back in here in a couple months wondering why he's not healing as quickly as they promised him.

He has a few other minor breaks - the two toes closest to the big one on his left foot, his left cheekbone, his right pinky, and his right kneecap - in odd places that will undoubtedly cause many stares in the future and questions like "how the hell did you manage that?" His right ankle is also sprained but it's pretty much unnoticeable with all the other worse injuries it's surrounded by. 

The most annoying thing is that his left shoulder is fucked up to hell and not only needed surgery, but is also singlehandedly damning him to a wheelchair as his only option for mobility, at least for the next few weeks. 

Most of the rest of his wounds are superficial, cuts and bruises and burns that will either heal and eventually fade away, or stick around to give him some nasty looking scars. 

When they finally take the bandages off his wrists, it's pretty apparent that he's going to have the reminder of his self-inflicted mutilation for a long time to come. The whole thing was messy, obviously, and couldn't really be stitched up neatly. 

"You could wear wrist cuffs." Scott says when he, Kira and Lydia visit afterwards. "Like, really thick, badass leather wrist cuffs."

Stiles looks up from examining the bloody scabs to snort at Scott's suggestion. "I'm pretty sure you can only get away with one wrist cuff without either looking like a tool or you're hiding something. And I'm not the wrist cuff guy. I don't _want_ to be that guy."

The only good thing about it is that it's so horrible, no one would ever think that he did it to himself. People will probably assume it's from some kind of animal attack, but god he's not looking forward to the questions. He'll probably end up coming up with a good, staple lie for those situations, because there's no pretty way to tell the truth. He remembers explaining it to a nurse and the brief flash of absolute horror in her eyes as she silently asked what level of desperation a person had to reach to do that to themselves, before she covered it up with a mask of professionalism and discretely excused herself to fetch a psych consult.

They think it was a real suicide attempt, because that's the official story they're sticking with. "Of course, if you were actually trying to commit suicide, this would have been the wrong way to go about it," comments Lydia as she traces her fingers along a patch of unblemished skin on his forearm. "Only about one percent of people who attempt suicide by cutting their wrists actually die, because they cut horizontally, not vertically, along the artery." She pauses, fingers brushing by the wound on his left wrist. "But I'm sure that's exactly the sort of morbid knowledge you would have."

Her fingers make their way into his palm and he closes his hand over hers. "I did know that," Stiles promises. 

She squeezes his hand tightly in response.

* * *

 

Stiles isn't sure how anyone ever survives the hospital without a person on the inside. He actually can't imagine what it's like, because ever since he was a little kid wandering aimlessly around the halls during mom's various appointments, Melissa has been there. Any time he came in with a sprain or a nasty cut, Melissa always found a way to come check up on him, if she wasn't working a shift in the emergency room and taking care of him herself.

She's not on his case, because even though she's not technically family, the entire hospital staff knows she may as well be. And from hushed conversations he's overheard while people _think_ he's asleep, she apparently had a hard time coping while he was missing and took quite a bit of time off, which is part of the reason why she's picking up so many extra shifts now. But even though she's busy, she always arrives at exactly the right moment to explain some loophole to him that he didn't know about. 

Melissa also advocated pretty strongly for him while he was unconscious, and he is infinitely, infinitely grateful because apparently they'd wanted to put a catheter in and she'd put her foot down. And yeah, needing help to get to the bathroom and wetting himself twice when nobody came in time was absolutely humiliating, but the thought of people touching his dick while he was unconscious was _way_ worse - not to mention the inevitable horror when they had to take it out while he was _conscious_.

Most importantly, though, she sneaks him extra pudding cups from the nurse's supply.

"We need to stop this," Melissa declares, licking her plastic spoon. "Or at least, I do. If I keep eating this much chocolate, I'm going to turn into a whale."

Stiles really doubts that, since she's one of the healthiest adults he knows. Much healthier than his dad, for sure. "But it's weird if you just sit here staring at me while I eat my pudding." He points out. The nurses and doctors and even some of his friends stare at him enough. 

"True," she sucks the last remaining remnants of pudding off of the spoon and points it at him. "Finish that. I might need to watch my figure, but you could really use some fattening up."

The best part about Melissa is that she tells it like it is. Most people won't say that he looks like shit, won't comment on the collarbones sticking out from beneath his hospital gown, like they're worried he'll be offended if they mention it. Which makes no sense. Why would he be offended? He was all-but starved for two weeks (sixteen and a half days, to be exact). _Of course_  he looks skinny, especially with his metabolism. 

It's still a little hard to stomach food though and he thinks he may have reached his limit for the day. "Sorry, I think I'm done." Stiles pushes the tray slightly away from him, closing his eyes as nausea pulses through him, making his head throb. 

"It's fine, don't apologize." Both she and his dad have been quick to correct him whenever he says sorry, like they think he's saying it because he's psychologically traumatized and suffering from self-victim-blaming or something like that. He's pretty sure they're reading too much into it and it doesn't actually mean anything - 'sorry' is just one of those words people throw around without really meaning it, a word to fill the gaps in a conversation.

She takes his half-eaten pudding from him, glances at the trash, then back at Stiles. "Would you judge me if I finished this off right now?" Melissa whispers to him conspiratorially.

That startles a genuine laugh out of him. It strains his stitches and makes his partially-healed cheek ache, but it feels so freeing he hardly even cares.

* * *

 

They bring out the chair for him and are so excited and pleased with this next 'big step' that they don't notice him glaring at it like it's the enemy. Crutches are bad enough. He's been on crutches before and it gets you a lot of double-takes and sympathetic smiles. But this, this just screams _PITY ME_ and he can't imagine actually wheeling around school in this thing. Not to mention how royally screwed he'll be if some new supernatural threat makes it's way into Beacon Hills while he's recovering.

"It's not that bad." Scott assures him as he pushes Stiles around the hospital floor (Stiles had tried to wheel himself at first, but his shoulder started yelling at him after only a few turns). "Remember when Danny was in a wheelchair freshman year? He became, like, the most popular kid in the school overnight."

Stiles grimaces at that, because attention is really the last thing he wants, even if he knows it will be totally unavoidable. "Yeah, but that's because Danny is the world's most lovable human being and everyone was fighting over the chance to help him out. For me, they'll probably be fighting down the chance to push me down the stairs."

He can pretty much feel Scott roll his eyes. "I know you're being self-depricating to be funny, but I seriously think you underestimate how many people actually like you. People were coming up and asking me why you weren't in class before they even knew you were an official missing person."

"People love drama," Stiles countered. "They were asking you because they know when there's trouble we're always at the center of it, and they wanted the first gossip. And the mountain of get-well cards in my hospital room and probably taking over my house is there because five years from now people want to be able to say 'this one time in high school I had a friend who was abducted by a psychopath-'"

"Then use it to your advantage," Scott says, like it's obvious. "Look, I know you don't want people prying and getting into your business and treating you differently, but it's gonna happen anyway." His tone was apologetic. "So you should probably be prepared for it and go into it with a battle plan. If someone wants to carry your books or push you to class, _let them_. Then they can feel good, like they're a part of all this somehow, and you don't end the day exhausted and in pain because you've been wheeling yourself around all day. Eventually it'll stop because people will realize you're not actually opening up to them and they'll get bored. But if you refuse help, it'll probably just interest them more."

Stiles considers this. What Scott's suggesting will involve a serious blow to his pride, but maybe it won't be so bad if he feels like he's tricking people somehow. And really, he's going to be embarrassed unless he manages to magically heal himself in the time before he's supposed to go back to school, and that's not going to happen unless he caves to the needling voice in the back of his mind that's telling him to ask Scott for the bite.

That particular voice has been growing stronger ever since he was attacked in his own house and dragged from his bed - _if you were a werewolf, this wouldn't have happened, if you were a werewolf, you could have defended yourself_ \- but the fact he can't put that burden on his best friend hasn't changed. Somehow, miraculously, Scott still isn't a killer and Stiles refuses to be the one to change that.

* * *

 

Even though he _hates hates hates_ the chair and his orthopedic doctor ordered him not to use it too much at first because it puts a strain on his shoulder (and the faster his shoulder heals, the sooner he can switch over to crutches), Stiles ends up pushing himself through the halls multiple times a day. The hospital room isn't that small and there's a T.V. and everything, but he just feels trapped there and whenever there's no one visiting with him he's struck by the desire to get out and move, mostly just because he can.

The good thing about the trauma floor is that he feels like he somewhat fits in here. Yeah, there's the occasional whisper and double-take because hospital patients are people too and _everyone_ knows 'that kid from the news' is here at Beacon Memorial. But plenty of people are just as battered looking as he is, some more so, and there's a certain sense of camaraderie about comparing stitches and rate of bruise-healing.

He's on his way back to his room, his lap piled high with jalepeno chips from the vending machine to replenish his stash, when he spies a familiar head of amber hair in the waiting room as he passes. He wheels back without knocking any of the chips to the floor and stares through the door.

Malia looks up guiltily from her spot by the window. "Oh…hi, Stiles." She wrinkles her nose. "What's with the chips?"

"Uh, they don't make me nauseous," he explains, pushing himself into the room. "They're about the only thing, so I have a stockpile in my room."

She nods, nose scrunching up further. "They smell terrible." 

"Well, fortunately I've got a regular human nose, so that's not really a problem for me." Stiles watches as she returns he attention to her vocab book, vigorously scratching out a word she got wrong. "Um, Malia, what are you doing in here?"

"Keeping watch," She replies without looking up. 

He frowns. "Keeping watch over what - oh, _me?"_  Malia bites her tongue between her teeth, pretending to concentrate, and just nods slightly, like it's no big deal. Affection fills his chest. "You know, it's usually easier to watch over someone when you're in the same room as them, not down the hall."

She sighs and sets her pen down. "Stiles, you don't have to be nice to me about this because you're afraid of hurting my feelings. You don't want me in there. It's fine, I get it. So I'm just going to make sure no one comes after you from here."

She makes to pick up her pen again, but Stiles stops her, wrapping his fingers around her wrist loosely. "I never said I don't want you in there. Why would you think that?"

"Because I remind you of him." Her eyes flash sadly. "You're scared of me, because I've hurt you before. Just like he did."

"What - oh Malia, _no_." He rests their hands on her lap, his other hand squeezing her knee gently. "I'm not scared of you, I promise. And you never hurt me. Well, unless you count the time you punched me in the face, but we weren't friends yet, and I just hit you the other day, so I think we can call it even."

Malia gnaws on her lip nervously, casting her eyes down in shame. "But I'm not…I'm not exactly gentle, like Lydia or - or Melissa or Scott. I know I can be aggressive and violent and I completely get why you feel unsafe around me."

"I _don't_." Stiles insisted. "Remember the first night you controlled your shift? You didn't want me to set you loose because you were scared you were going to hurt me, but I trusted you, remember? I knew you wouldn't hurt me. And you didn't. So can you trust me when I say I'm not scared of you?"

"Then why did you flinch?"

"I…it's…" He's been trying not to dwell on it too much, but he sort of gets why. It's uncomfortable when the nurses are pulling and pushing at him, and the other day when Kira rested her hand on his arm he'd felt this prickly feeling under his skin and kept wanting to jerk away. The only people he actually _wants_ to touch him are his Dad, Scott, Lydia and Melissa. It's confusing and the only conclusion he's been able to come up with is because he trusts them so much. He trusts Malia too, it's just that… "It's complicated," he managed lamely. "But I swear it's not anything you did wrong."

She makes a face. "That doesn't make sense."

"Sometimes things don't make sense." Stiles agrees. "Especially when people are recovering from…injuries and stuff. Sometimes there just isn't an easy explanation for everything."

"You never miss a teachable moment, do you?" Malia teases, squeezing his hand, before standing up. "Well, let me get my stuff together and take you back to your room, and maybe you can try to teach me the meanings of constitute and consecrate and how the hell I'm supposed to tell them apart, because I actually have no fucking idea."

He snorts and lets her wheel him back, trying not to dwell on how close her hands are to his neck.


	4. Chapter Four

Stiles turned eighteen four days after he was taken, and apparently the media latched onto that like it was the most tragic thing they’d ever heard. Like missing his birthday is the worst part of it all. So along with the plethora of sympathy cards, flowers and gifts, there are also a fuckload of _birthday_ cards, flowers and gifts.

Scott and Kira have taken it upon themselves to sort through them, separating out the ones from people he actually knows, ones from strangers that are particularly thoughtful, expensive, or ‘just pretty’ as Kira puts it, from the ones that are basically meaningless crap, which they either throw away or donate.

Even though they say they’re getting rid of the majority of it, there are apparently still too many to fit on the minimal amount of surface area in his hospital room, so they leave most of them at his house, bringing only the most important ones to him. Like the letter from Isaac he has yet to read through, or the obnoxiously massive card Coach made the cross-country team sign (which some shmuck has written a small novel on – probably Greenberg), or the “Get Well Soon” card sent all the way from London that was signed simply “Jackson.”

He’s in the middle of watching “Crooked Arrows”, an over-the-top cheesy movie Coach sent to him that was probably the only lacrosse film he could find, when Liam knocks on his door.

“I’ve been sent to take you to – is that ‘Crooked Arrows’?” He breaks off, distracted from whatever his mission was supposed to be. “I love that movie!”

 _Of course_ you _would_. Stiles pauses the movie and pushes himself up so he’s sitting. “Where are you taking me?”

Liam looks away from the screen, trying to hide his puppyish expression of disappointment. “You’ll see, it’s a surprise. Come on.” He pushes the chair closer to the bed and Stiles awkwardly clambers into it. He really hates surprises and he’s definitely not keen on being pushed somewhere without knowing exactly where he’s going, but while Liam is technically a werewolf and could probably break him in half, he’s so fucking _short_ that Stiles has a really difficult time taking him seriously, so he’s not exactly worried.

They go down the hall toward the waiting room and when Liam pushes him in, Stiles’s mouth falls open.

The entire room has been decorated with balloons and streamers, there’s a table set up with food and an enormous chocolate cake, in the corner is a small pile of presents, and the room is filled with people – the nurses on the floor, a few of the doctors who’ve treated him, a couple other trauma patients, his Dad and Melissa, and of course his friends.

“What is all this?” He asks in shock, even though it’s pretty obvious.

Scott steps forward, looking hesitant and Stiles realizes Scott’s nervous about how he’ll react. “Um, we’d actually been planning something for your eighteenth, a surprise party, but, uh, obviously that didn’t happen so we thought we’d just reschedule and bring the party to you!” He gestures extravagantly around the waiting room, wincing slightly. “Uh, obviously it’s not as exciting as it was supposed to be, and there’s less people and no booze–”

“We’re right here, Scott.” Melissa reminds him.

“No, dude, this is awesome.” Stiles cuts in, rolling closer to him and wishing he could stand up to clap a hand on his friend’s back. A massive party with alcohol and people might have been cool several weeks ago, but right now this is way better in his opinion. He looks around at the decorations, tugging the string on of one of the orange balloons.

“Sorry, if the colors are sort of weird,” Danny says from his spot near the corner. “Lydia was insistent on blue and orange for some reason.”

He shoots a surprised look to Lydia, who shrugs like it’s no big deal, but he can see a tint of red on her cheeks.

_Sometimes things you wouldn’t think are a good combination turn out to be a perfect combination, you know? Like two people together who nobody ever thought would be together… **ever**_ **…**

His eyes catch on the arm wrapped around her waist, belonging to her boyfriend and reminds himself not to read too much into it.

* * *

Just to be clear, Stiles really likes Cameron.

After a string of terrible decisions (Jackson, Aiden, and Parrish who was seven years older than her and _worked for his dad_ ), Lydia finally decided to go for a nice, normal teenage boy. A guy who would hold her books and wait for her after class and smile at her in hallways simply because he was glad to see her. She found that in Cameron, who was a decently good lacrosse player in their grade and most importantly totally ordinary.

At least, he was until it turned out that he was dying from some horrible disease and Scott offered him the bite to turn him into a werewolf and save his life.

Stiles will be the first to admit he hasn’t always been very accepting of new guys in the pack. Well, more specifically new guys in Scott’s life. It was just the two of them for such a long time, and then suddenly it was like everyone wanted to befriend Scott, have a piece of his time. And his insecurities about Scott suddenly realizing what a terrible, shitty friend Stiles actually is compared to all these other new friends have definitely caused him some problems with people like Liam and Isaac before.

But when Cameron first started hanging out with them (before he found out about the whole supernatural thing), he actually seemed more interested in befriending Stiles than Scott. Even after he became a beta in Scott’s pack, Cameron always seemed more concerned with Stiles’s opinion than anyone else’s. Which had been totally _weird_ , until Kira pointed out that since Cameron was interested in Lydia, it made sense that he’d want approval from her closest friend. So Stiles had asked why Cameron wasn’t sucking up to her instead and Kira had given him the sort of blank look she always got when she thought he might be trying to be funny and she just wasn’t getting the joke.

At any rate, the two of them have actually become friends in the six months or so. Cameron is just that guy who will always pass you the ball just to be nice even if he knows he has a better chance of scoring, will always laugh at your jokes when no one else thinks they’re funny, and is constantly trying to ensure that everyone is getting along. He’s not the sharpest tool in the shed (Malia does better than him in some classes. _Malia_ , who was trapped inside the body of a coyote for eight years), but he’s got that same effortless ability to make everyone want to be his friend that people like Danny or Kira have. Most importantly, he treats Lydia better than any of her previous boyfriends ever did.

After Stiles first woke up, while Lydia and Scott were basically living at the hospital, Cameron would stop by occasionally just to make sure Lydia was taking care of herself -  reminding her to drink some water, go to sleep, etc. He brought her food every time she missed a meal and whenever she’d apologize for not calling or missing a text he’d smile with the patience of an actual saint and tell her not to worry about it.

The point is, ulterior reasons for Cameron befriending him or not, Stiles does like him. And he absolutely has no problem with his relationship with Lydia.

Well, no. He has _one_ problem with it, but that one is not Cameron’s fault at all.

* * *

 

By the time he’s discharged from the hospital, Stiles is so sick of the place he vows never to enter it willingly again. The whole car ride home he tries to focus on how happy he is to be leaving, but the rising anxiety is nearly impossible to ignore the closer they get to his house.

His dad temporarily transformed their living room into a bedroom, which he’s grateful for because even though he’s got crutches and has been practicing with them, he can really only manage them for about a minute before his shoulder starts hurting like hell, and the idea of tackling all those stairs if he gets thirsty in the middle of the night is daunting.

(and he’s not sure if he’s ever going to be able to sleep in his real bedroom again)

Scott and his dad help him out of the car and he makes his way up to the house on his crutches. There are three steps leading up to the porch and each one feels like a victory. He’s so focused on making it up without having to clutch at either of the people flanking him that he’s able to forget about the voice screaming _it’s not safe you’re not safe not safe_ for about a minute until he reaches the top.

He stops to catch his breath on the top as Scott gives a tiny whoop of victory and his dad pats him on the back gently. “Hard part’s over, man.” Scott says with a grin. “Now you just got to make it to the couch and you can watch all the reruns of Star Trek you want.”

“Not…a…Star…Trek…fan…” Stiles gasps out, feeling more than slightly pathetic.

“Star Wars, then. Same thing.”

Normally he’d retort that _no,_ they’re not the same thing, and if Scott’s knowledge of pop culture weren’t so woefully subpar he’d know the difference. But his dad is unlocking the door and opening it, expecting him to follow him inside and he can see the railing of the staircase past his shoulder, the rungs of the stairwell his hands frantically grabbed at, had caught his foot on, _the muffled sound of his shouts echoing through the empty house and he bites down into the hand covering his mouth. There’s a bit-off curse and the hand drops for a second._

_“Help me! Someone please help!” He screams, seizing the opportunity. “Help! Please hel-”_

_The hand is back, digging into his jaw, shaking him roughly. “No one’s listening. There’s no one here – like taking candy from a baby, you kids are so fucking_ stupid _.” There’s a sudden yank and his leg_ snaps _and he’s howling in pain behind the hand, then he’s being dragged further down the stairs, hitting the rug on the floor hard, fingernails scratching the wood on the floorboards –_

“Stiles!” Someone’s grabbing at his good shoulder and he almost jerks away until he sees Scott’s warm brown eyes looking down at him in concern. His breath is coming out in short, chocked gasps now and his chest feels like it’s about to explode. The welcome mat is about an inch away from his face. “Stiles, breathe in slowly through your nose.”

He remembers kicking the welcome mat in his desperate struggle, how it folded over and thinking that at least anyone walking up to his house would be able to tell right away that something was wrong – _signs of a struggle_.

“ _Breathe_ , Stiles.”

“I…I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.”

“ _No._ ” Stiles seizes Scott’s hand and looks up at him pleadingly. “I can’t go in there. Please don’t make me go in there.”

There’s a sharp inhale near the doorway and he knows it’s his dad and he _hates_ himself because it will devastate his dad to know he doesn’t feel safe in his house anymore but he just can’t go back there. Even if his dad never takes a night shift again, he knows he won’t be able to actually fall asleep in his bed without waking up to a hand covering his mouth and a cold smile leering down at him.

“Okay,” Scott nods, looking back at Stiles’s dad. “Okay, we’re not gonna make you do anything. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. Why don’t you come stay at our house for a couple days, yeah? We’ll make the living room into a bedroom and your dad can stay in the guest bedroom if he wants to. At least for a little while.”

“It’s fine with me as long as Melissa’s alright with it.” His dad says after a little while.

Stiles pants against the welcome mat. He can’t bear to look at his dad when he answers, “Yeah, okay.”

It feels like losing, somehow.


	5. Chapter Five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Non-graphic mentions of sexual assault.  
> Non-graphic mentions of (fake) attempted suicide.

Because he’s a masochist, Stiles googles himself the night before he goes back to school. Basically every living soul he’s interfaced with since he was rescued have advised him to stay away from news sites and the internet in general really, and up until this point he’s listened just because he’s scared of what he’ll find. But he knows how people are when something this big happens; how they’re glued to their phones, tracking certain news stories and letting everyone know when there’s an update. So whatever’s out there, all of his classmates have read it and he can’t go back tomorrow without being prepared.

At first he thinks it’s not so bad. The fact that he was a minor when he was first kidnapped and an adult when he was found two weeks later somewhat complicates things legally and his dad has been able to stretch a few ‘protection of minors’ laws to make it so the police’s statement to the press does not contain the details of his abduction other than the fact that he was taken from his home and imprisoned for sixteen days in the basement of a cabin in Caanan, three towns over.

Then he starts clicking on some of the less official articles and they detail who Sylar Linchman was – a sociopathic murderer who found out about supernatural creatures and was recruited by hunters before going rogue, though the articles of course only know about the ‘sociopathic murderer’ bit – his previous crimes and of course his victims.

None of them were minors, though they were all pretty much within the same age range. Three boys and two girls, all with dark hair, tall and thin. _I guess he had a type_.

And of course all of the information the police have about their murders is out there for the whole public to see. _Evidence of torture, sexual assault_ , he reads and shuts his laptop. Stiles breathes in through his nose for five seconds, holds his breath for two, then exhales through his mouth for seven. Then again. And again.

When he finally gets a grip on himself, he looks back on the laptop and considers reading on. Maybe that’s all the article will say. Maybe they won’t speculate as to whether or not he was – maybe the reporter who wrote it as actually a fucking idiot. And maybe every other news writer in the world is also an idiot and no one brought it up in any of the stories and all his classmates and every person he’s going to have to face tomorrow are idiots too and none of them will have put two and two together and figured _if one’s an incident, two’s a coincidence, and three’s a pattern, then five’s a_ modus operandi _and there’s no way in hell that kid was chained up in a basement for two weeks without getting fucked._

Breathe in, hold breath, breathe out. Breathe in, hold breath, breathe out.

Stiles shoves the laptop under the couch where he won’t have to think about it and stares up at the ceiling. Really, a bunch of random kids he shares some classes with knowing what happened to him shouldn’t bother him. His friends and his dad already know and that should be a thousand times more humiliating. Even if he never actually told them anything, they know, he knows they know, and they know he knows they know and it’s all just one big circle of knowing where nobody wants to address the enormous, fat elephant in the room.

Logically, he’s aware they’re probably waiting for him to acknowledge it first. Which is really sort of stupid of them, because Stiles and denial go way back and he’ll probably go to his grave without talking about it unless someone brings it up with him first. He spoke with a psychologist in the hospital a few times, but they were mostly there to ensure he wasn’t going to try cutting up his wrists again once he had access to far more effective tools like actual knives.

Those sessions had been awkward, because the psychologist had so clearly wanted him to share how he was feeling about being abducted, but hadn’t wanted to push him. Normally he wouldn’t have been entirely averse to confiding in a third-party who had no emotional investment in him at all, but what was he so supposed to say to her?

‘I feel useless because I was kidnapped ( _again_ ) and used against my best friend ( _again_ ).’ ‘I feel guilty because my kidnapper did some weird druid magic thing and manipulated the magical tether I have (had) with my banshee friend so that she would experience all my pain.’ ‘I feel weak and human and breakable and I think about giving in and asking to become a werewolf all the time even though I know it might kill me and my best friend will blame himself for the rest of his life if it does.’

Because _that_ wouldn’t get him permanently locked up on the psych floor.

* * *

 

The first day back is shit, basically.

It’s filled with people looking at him, like he knew it would be. Most of them just sneak glances and pretend not to be, at least, but others just stare outright.

“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” Lydia snaps at a gaping sophomore when they pass by in the halls. He absolutely refused to be pushed (he predicts this pride will last him a few days until he gets sick of wheeling himself all over the school) but it’s hard for him to see where he’s going with his backpack in his lap, so she has it slung over her shoulders. It’s huge and overwhelming on her and she sort of looks like a turtle. Stiles would laugh, but she’s being her fiercest, scariest self right now and even though none of its directed at him, he doesn’t want to piss her off.

He has to stay behind in every class to figure out his plan for catching up. His friends linger outside the door to wait for him each time and he has never been so grateful to have such a large group of friends before, because there is at least one member of Scott’s pack (or quasi-member, like Danny, Max, or Mason, though he doesn’t have classes with the last, obviously) in every class with him. Scott, Lydia and Malia all find their way to him even when they don’t have any classes with him, sometimes even when he knows they have class on the other side of the school. 

 

All but his Physics teacher (figures) basically excuse him from all homework, tests and quizzes from the past month and just want to make sure he knows the material from the time that he missed. His English teacher has actually prepared a packet of notes for him, which is very sweet and totally unnecessary because even the teacher’s own notes are inferior to Lydia’s. Because all science teachers are predisposed to being assholes, his Physics teacher excuses him from the tests and quizzes he missed, but gives him a timeframe for turning in all of the homework, ‘just to make sure he understands it.’

Stiles is really tempted to do a shitty job on purpose, just to see if she would actually give him a bad grade on it.

His last class of the day is Econ and Coach tells him not to worry about any of it, that he’ll just change Stiles’s midterm and final so it doesn’t include the stuff he missed and if anyone has a problem with that they can go through him.

“But don’t I need that information for college and, like, life in general?” He questions.

Coach actually snorts at that. “Stilinski, I think you and I both know none of what I teach here is actually necessary. The only reason I have this job is because they wanted me to coach lacrosse, having some sort of affiliation with the school is a requirement, and this was the only teaching position available at the time.”

Well, it’s good to know that he’s wasted an hour out of every school day for the last three or so years. “Okay, well thanks Coach. I really appreciate it.”

He’s about to leave the classroom when Coach speaks up again, “And if anyone causes you any problems or gives you crap or anything, just let me know and I’ll deal with it, no questions asked, alright?”

Being harassed is actually one of the few things Stiles isn’t worried about, mostly because he has an entire barricade of people that include four were-creatures, a kitsune and Lydia Martin. But he can tell Coach is really serious about his offer so he accepts it with a tight smile. “Yeah, definitely. Thanks.”

“I just–” Coach hesitates, like he’s struggling with something. “I know I’m not supposed to have favorites, but I do. I have two, as a matter-a-fact.”

The lump that forms in his throat is really unexpected and unwelcome. “Um, thanks.” He mumbles, wondering where the hell his vocabulary went.

“Yeah, well,” Coach clears his throat. “Just focus all your attention on getting back on your feet. We’re gonna need you this season!” Stiles’s incredulity must show on his face, because he amends, “I’m not saying you’re the best, because well, frankly, you’re not, but you’re not the worst either. You’re…you’re…”

“Mediocre?” Stiles supplies.

“Exactly! You’re mediocre and the team needs mediocre players, because we can’t field an entire team of good players because there’s not enough of them, so if we didn’t have the mediocre players we’d be stuck fielding the bad ones.” Coach points at him. “So, eat whatever crap the doctors tell you to, do all the stupid physical therapy exercises, because I expect you to be ready to play at least midway through the season! No excuses, got it?”

The migraine that usually accompanies trying to make sense of Coach’s ramblings is setting in and Stiles is mostly just grateful for the shift in mood. “Got it, Coach.”

“Right, then.” Coach sets a hand on his good shoulder and looks like he wants to say something else, before just patting it awkwardly and letting his hand fall to his side, his expression slightly lost. “Go home and sleep, you look like crap.”

“Will do.”

He meets Scott out in the hallway, who’s wearing that slightly constipated expression he gets when he’s trying _not_ to listen in. “Ready to go home?” Scott asks, twirling the jeep keys around his index finger.

“Not quite.” Stiles takes a deep breath. “I need you to do me a favor and take me somewhere first.”

* * *

 

Because Scott is the world’s greatest friend, he doesn’t protest being asked to drive all the way to the Nevada border and back on a school night. He’s not happy about _why_ they’re driving there, but he keeps his mouth shut aside from asking “you sure this is what you want to do?” and when Stiles responds with a definitive “yup” he doesn’t question him again.

Gun laws in California are almost ludicrously strict, which is something Stiles has always been grateful for, as it makes his dad’s job relatively safer than it would otherwise be. And despite growing up in the law enforcement community and deciding at a young age that he wanted to follow in his dad’s footsteps, he’s never been very interested in owning one. After almost being murdered in the file room at Eichen House last year, he bought a pocketknife and slept with it under his pillow, but all he managed to do with it when he was attacked in his bed was slash Linchman across the shoulder and seriously piss him off.

He kept flashing back to that moment while he was in Linchman’s basement, thinking how different things would be if it had been a gun instead of a knife and he’d managed to shoot his attacker in the face. Stiles knows having a gun wouldn’t have necessarily changed things, and it isn’t that effective of a weapon against most of the threats he ends up facing. But he also knows he’ll just feel _safer_ having a moderately powerful means of protecting himself.

So he puts in an order at a Nevada gun shop near the border that basically specializes in catering to all the Californians who can’t buy guns in-state. Stiles really wishes he could do this legally, because if his dad finds it he’ll be so screwed, but he’d have to be twenty-one to buy a handgun, plus he’s not even sure if he’d pass the background test thanks to his stint in Eichen House last year while he was possessed, and his most recent psychiatric evaluation.

The gun he picks is a simple, small 9mm that fits easily into his jacket pocket. Not that he plans on carrying it around, because that’s like begging to be arrested. No, he plans to just keep it near him while he sleeps, and hope his dad and Melissa don’t decide to go rummaging through his stuff.

He feels especially bad for bringing a gun into Melissa’s home without her permission, but he can’t go back to living in his own house. He just can’t.

* * *

 

The next day, Scott’s supposed to take him home again. Only, he conveniently forgets until last period that he has a study date with Kira right after school until last period. But fortunately he just so happens to have gotten Stiles a ride with a mysterious person he won’t name who was kind enough to agree at the very last second.

“I smell a trap,” says Stiles suspiciously as Scott leads him out into the parking lot. He’s not quite sure whose car he’s expecting to roll up, but it certainly isn’t Derek’s ginormous S.U.V.

He’s barely seen Derek in the past few weeks, since the surly werewolf only stopped by the hospital twice: once to talk to Scott about something, the other when Braeden brought him some awesome snickerdoodle cookies (seriously. Who knew Braeden could _bake_?) The truth is Stiles has actually been wanting a second alone with him so he can thank him for taking the decision to kill Linchman out of Scott’s hands.

But when he gets in the car – his crutches are already in the back seat, letting him know for sure this was planned – Stiles finds himself being mostly silent the whole ride, not sure where exactly to start. _Thank you for murdering someone with your bare hands_ , seems a bit insensitive, even when talking to Derek.

Most people would probably be concerned with how quiet he is for the majority of the trip. Derek seems to actually enjoy it, likely because he’d probably resigned himself to putting up with Stiles’s incessant chatting the entire time. Which begs the question of why Derek volunteered to drive him anywhere.

“Um, dude?” Stiles watches the road sign whizz by. “You just missed the turn.”

“No.”

“Uh, yeah, _you did_.”

“I did not.”

He turns to the werewolf in the front seat. “Trust me, I’ve been going to Scott’s house since I could basically walk, when I say you’re going the wrong way, _you’re going the wrong way_.”

“We’re not going to Scott’s house.” Derek says with a tone that leaves no room for argument.

Stiles sighs and flops back against his seat. He’s exhausted and his leg hurts: he just wants to take his pain meds and pass out on Scott’s couch for several hours, not go off on whatever little adventure Derek has planned for them.

Their destination becomes clearer as they make a few more turns and his stomach turns to lead. “Derek, take me home.” He orders in a clear voice.

Derek flicks off the turn signal. “I am.”

“Haha, very funny.” His voice starts to waver. “You know what I meant, take me to Scott’s.”

Derek doesn’t respond as he pulls into Stiles’s driveway. He pulls the car to a stop, gets out and walks around it, grabbing Stiles’s crutches from the back before opening the passenger door and offering them to him with an expectant expression. Stiles just digs his fingers into the sides of the chair. There is no way in hell he’s getting out of this car by choice, and he’s fairly certain he’s too injured for Derek to manhandle him out. _Fairly_.

“Why did you bring me here?” He asks in a small voice.

“Because,” Derek says in that annoying voice he uses sometimes that makes it sound like he’s explaining addition to a small child. “You can’t keep sleeping on the McCall’s couch. You’re injured, you need a bed, it’s not rocket science.”

“I’m only sleeping on the couch because it’s on the first floor.” Stiles retorts. “When I’m able to use my crutches more I can sleep in the guest bedroom.”

Derek cocks his head. “And then what? Your dad sleeps on the couch?” When Stiles doesn’t respond, Derek continues, “It’s not a permanent arrangement and you know it. Sooner or later you’re going to have to face your fears.”

“Okay, you know what? Fuck you.” Stiles snaps defensively. “‘Face my fears’? What the hell do you know about my ‘fears’, I’ve seen you, like, twice in the past few weeks. So quit pretending you’re my shrink or–”

“After the fire,” Derek begins and Stiles shuts up because he’s known Derek long enough to know that any sentence that begins ‘after the fire’ is one worth listening to. “I couldn’t go back to my house for a long time without seeing it. The bodies burning. Hearing their screams. The next thing I knew I’d be halfway down the road, driving away. But eventually I realized that by running I was letting Kate win. And I had too much pride for that. And I know you do too.”

For a long while Stiles says nothing. Then he silently eases himself out of the car and takes the crutches from Derek stiffly. He’s fine going up the porch, until Derek takes out a key Stiles’s dad must have given him and unlocks the door.

Suddenly he’s shrinking back, breath shortening. “I can’t – I can’t –”

“Yes you can.” Derek says calmly. “Just focus on something else. Talk to me about something.”

He’s reminded vividly of Lydia that day in the locker room when she was trying to talk him down from a panic attack and scoffs. _Derek_ better not try to kiss him. “Talk about what?”

“Scott.” Derek suggests. “Tell me how you guys met. How you became friends.”

 _This is not going to work_. “It was in kindergarten,” Stiles hears himself saying as he swings his crutches forward and hops nearer to the doorway. “Scott had just moved to Beacon Hills from Sacremento. He already did kindergarten at his old school, but his parents decided to have him repeat it at Beacon so that he would have an easier time getting to know the other kids – plus he was one of the youngest in his grade before, and a tiny, skinny little kid.”

He’s inside the house now. Stiles closes his eyes. Breathe in, hold breath, breathe out. He opens his eyes to see that Derek is walking up the staircase and turning to him expectantly. Son of a _bitch_. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Just keep talking,” orders Derek. “So you two met in kindergarten?”

“Yeah.” He moves forward, keeping his eyes away from the railing. “Not until like halfway through the year though. It was during recess and I really needed to go to the bathroom. Like, _really needed to pee_. I tried to tell my teacher but she just told me to hold on for a bit, that recess was over in just a few minutes. But you know how it is with little kids – once they need to go, they need to _go_. So I just squatted down in the sandbox and peed.” There’s a slight grunt of amusement ahead of him and he’s jerked back to reality, only to realize he’s halfway up the stairs and oh god that’s the railing where his foot caught on and –

“Then someone was shouting and I looked up to see this furious little kid screaming at me because apparently I’d peed right on top of the sandcastle he’d spent all recess making.” Stiles tries to focus on remembering baby Scott’s red-faced expression and pushes himself up the next step. “And then I started yelling back that it wasn’t my fault I didn’t see it, and it wasn’t that amazing anyway, and then we were basically screaming at each other in the sandbox and our teacher had to separate us.” He’s only two steps away from the landing now. “She made us go inside and made us go to a corner for ‘quiet time’, except she had the brilliant idea of sending us to the _same_ corner instead of separate ones because she wanted us to sort out our differences. Scott ended up apologizing first because he’s Scott and then we started talking and found out we both liked the same Pokémon or something and by the time the teacher came to get us we were already best friends for life.”

He’s in his room when he finishes, staring at the posters and newspaper clippings on his wall. Derek’s leaning against his desk, looking smug.

Basically all of him is shaking and he really wants to collapse on his bed, but he can’t. “Just because I made it up here doesn’t mean I’m gonna be able to sleep here.” Stiles points out tiredly.

“Then redecorate it.” Derek shrugs. “Move your furniture around, paint the walls green…”

“Are you giving me home improvement advice?” Stiles asks with considerable amusement. Derek just raises his eyebrows and sort of glowers in response. After a long while, Stiles sits down on the edge of his bed. It’s just a bed. It’s not going to spring up and attack him. It’s just a bed. “Man, I can’t believe you made me do that.” He sighs.

Derek has the decency to look somewhat sheepish. “You had to face it at some point.”

“No, not going in the house. _Walking up the stairs_. That’s the first time I’ve gone up a whole flight of stairs with these crutches.” Stiles manages a weak grin. “Seriously, what a sadist. You’re probably gonna have to carry me back down.”

“That’ll be a cold day in hell, Stiles.”

He and his dad move back in the next day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sterek! Sterek, sterek, sterek, why are you so easy to write?  
> Seriously, I don't think I understood why they were such a popular ship until I wrote this chapter. They are seriously fun to write, even if their bond is only platonic, like it is in this chapter. I think this is the first time I've ever had Derek-Stiles interaction in a story and it was way easier than I thought it would be!
> 
> I was planning on Stiles just purchasing and registering a gun legally until I looked up California gun laws and OMG THEY ARE SO STRICT. Which is great, really (I am NOT pro-gun), but not so great for my story. Luckily the thing about tons of people in California buying guns in Nevada is totally true, and there are definitely places Stiles could go that wouldn't think twice about selling to a barely legal kid who just got out of the hospital.


End file.
